Mrs Montrel

Rachel POV

The car was silent except for the hum of the engine and the sound of my own shaky breaths. I stared out the window, watching my old life blur away, until my tears finally exhausted me into a fitful sleep.

I didn’t feel the car stop. I barely registered being guided through cold, echoing hallways. My last memory before true unconsciousness was the soft thud of a heavy door closing, sealing me in.

——

My eyes fluttered open to a sensation of warmth and a bed far softer and richer than anything I’d ever slept on. For a brief moment, I sighed in relief, letting the comfort swallow me whole.

Then my mind caught up with my body.

This wasn’t my bed.

The sheets were too silky, the room too quiet.

I sat up sharply, heart pounding as I took in my surroundings. The room was enormous, bright, elegant, and utterly unfamiliar. Gold drapes framed tall windows. A chandelier glittered above me like a captive star.

And then, the memories crashed down.

The gun.

The deal.

Damien Montrel.

He’d made me follow his men to his mansion right after the incident. I must’ve cried myself to exhaustion on the ride here.

My gaze landed on the nightstand, where my phone lay face down— showing ten missed calls.

Dad.

I tried to call him back, but before I could press the screen, a sharp knock made me flinch.

The door opened before I could even answer. Two men stood there.

One was tall and elderly, his silver hair slicked neatly back. His black suit fit perfectly, and though age had softened his face, his posture carried a quiet strength. His green eyes studied me with a kind of amused calm, as if he’d seen all this before.

Beside him stood a younger man in a turtleneck and dark trousers. He looked far more intimidating, with a cold stare and a guarded stance. He held a sheet of paper in his gloved hand.

“Good morning, Miss…” The older man began, his voice deep and steady. “You may call me Mr Vance. I work directly under Mr Montrel.”

I nodded nervously, unsure whether to speak.

Mr Vance smiled faintly and gestured for the younger man to hand me the paper.

When I saw it, my heart nearly stopped.

A marriage certificate.

“You were asleep for a while,” Mr Vance said kindly, as if this were normal. “So Mr Montrel went ahead and signed his part. You only need to do the same.”

For a moment, I couldn’t breathe. My name sat neatly beside his—Rachel Owens and Damien Montrel. The signature of the man who had threatened my father stared up at me like a death sentence.

My voice shook. “You’re serious about this?”

“Mr Montrel never jokes,” Mr Vance said. “This guarantees your father’s safety.”

My hand trembled as I picked up the pen. I stared at the paper until my vision blurred, then forced my name across the line.

When I looked up, both men were still watching me.

“Is something the matter?” I asked, my voice small.

Mr Vance chuckled softly. “Nothing of concern, Mrs Montrel. No need to be anxious. We all serve you now. Don’t let us intimidate you.”

The younger man finally spoke, his voice clipped and businesslike. “We’re to inform you of the rules, ma’am. Per the boss’s orders.”

“Rules?” I repeated, frowning.

“Feel free to roam the house, the gardens, and the west wing,” the young man said. “The east wing, however, is restricted. Do not enter. The boss conducts his business there, and he won’t like to be disturbed.”

I nodded quickly, understanding that “business” meant things I never wanted to see.

Mr Vance continued, his tone polite but firm. “Contact with the outside world will be limited. You’ll require permission to leave the estate, and when you do, our men will accompany you for your safety. Mr Montrel prefers the world forget this place exists.”

My stomach dropped. “But I have college—and work—and my family—”

Mr Vance’s eyes softened, though his expression didn’t waver. “I’m aware, Mrs Montrel. But those things belong to your past. Your life now… belongs here.”

I stared at Mr Vance, still trying to process everything—the paper I’d signed, the rules, the feeling that my whole life had been quietly erased.

“Mr Vance,” I said, forcing my voice steady, “is that all?”

He hesitated, then exchanged a glance with the younger man. “Almost. There’s one more person you’ll need to meet.”

“Who?” I asked warily.

The younger man’s lips twitched with faint amusement, like he knew a secret I didn’t.

“Master Leo,” Mr Vance said. “Mr Montrel’s son.”

I blinked. “His son?”

He gave a small nod. “A good boy. Five years old. You’ll find him in the playroom. Master Damien thought it best you meet him right away.”

Before I could form a question, the younger man opened the door and gestured for me to follow. My heart pounded as we walked through long, echoing hallways lined with portraits and closed doors. The deeper we went, the quieter the house became.

Finally, Mr Vance stopped before a white door decorated with stickers and tiny hand-drawn stars. For a moment, his expression softened.

“He doesn’t speak to many people,” he said quietly. “But he’s gentle. Try not to frighten him.”

I nodded, unsure what to expect. The younger man opened the door.

Sunlight split into the hallway, warm and soft. Inside, a little boy sat on the floor surrounded by colored blocks. He looked up at me with wide hazel eyes, curls falling across his forehead.

For a heartbeat, everything stopped—the mansion, the fear, even my thoughts. All I saw was this small, quiet child blinking up at a stranger.

Mr Vance smiled faintly behind me. “Mrs Montrel,” he murmured, “meet Master Leo.”